“If someone from outer space landed in Britain and was told to consume mainstream media for the next two months, and then explain what it means to be a Black Briton, I don’t think the result would be someone who sounds like me,” Bakare laughs, referring to his broad West Yorkshire accent. It’s a funny anecdote, but a sad observation on how limited, and unfortunately London-centric, the mainstream image of Black identity can be. In his debut book, We Were There, the Bradford-born author sets out to redefine these narrow preconceptions about Black-British identity in a panoramic look of the Black diaspora across 20th-century Britain.

Bakare’s 2021 Guardian article on Black youth culture in 1970s Wigan became the book’s first chapter, ‘Northern Souls, 1977.’ Explaining how the research led him down countless rabbit holes, he discovered stories of the same era, documenting Liverpool’s radical Black activism in the L8 postcode and the toppling of a slavery-linked statue of William Huskisson, to the glory days of Manchester’s now-demolished Reno club in Moss Side, which welcomed mega stars like Muhammad Ali. In a collection of untold truths and hardships, We Were There is a tender yet determined, century-defining record of what Black resistance, grief and celebration looked like in the testing era of Thatcher’s turbulent Britain. 

Dazed spoke to Lanre Bakare about his view on reclaiming lost history and what it means to be a Black Brit outside of London today.

You describe We Were There, as a ‘road trip around Black Britain in the Thatcher era’. Why was it important for you to root the story in places outside of the London narrative?

Lanre Bakare: I grew up in Bradford and I’m a British Nigerian. There’s an established Black community there, but I would never see Black people from Bradford or West Yorkshire represented in the media. The stories of Black history in London are all really important, such as the 1976 Notting Hill Carnival riots or the first Rock Against Racism gig. They’re in the book, I write about them, but I just knew there were other things going on in Black communities outside of London. I think ideas and language around what it is to be Black and British always come back to the centre, it comes back to London. But there are so many different ways to be Black and British.

Black music is undeniably important and influential to British culture. How did you decide which musical stories would be in the book?

Lanre Bakare: The Northern Soul chapter was always going to feature. I watched Tony Palmer’s documentary about Wigan Casino and I’d see these Black kids there. They would flash up on screen for just a second and then they’d move on. I thought to myself, ‘who are these people?’ In the contemporary retelling of Northern Soul – it’s a white scene. I was trying not to take the official retelling of the story at face value and see if there was a Black influence within the scene.

I think Northern Soul is a complicated genre because there were Black people present, but I would say the scene was still majoritively white and apolitical.

Lanre Bakare: That is an interesting point. However, I don’t actually think it is as simple as that. I think you could argue, as I do in the chapter, that it was complex. The music they played was forgotten and discarded Black music, which white DJs picked up. Some of the tracks they played were overtly political. ‘Dancing in the Street’ [by Martha and the Vandellas] is a political anthem. ‘Respect’ by Aretha Franklin is a big civil rights song. There’s a track by a guy named James Coit called ‘Black Power’. Don’t forget the actual insignia of the scene is a Black fist, which comes from the 1968 Mexico Olympics. So, I don’t think it is entirely apolitical. Black culture runs through it. But, yes, when you compare it to sound system culture, it comes across as apolitical. I think a lot of scenes would. Even the political music scenes wouldn’t look that political compared to sound system culture.

I think it’s absolutely undeniable that [Thatcher’s] stance on race was to weaponise it and she did that incredibly successfully, and set the template for modern politicians to do the same thing

‘Northern Souls, 1977’ follows Steve Caesar, a young Black Briton who won a dance contest at Wigan Casino. How did you get in touch with him?

Lanre Bakare: Steve is a legendary guy. I chat to him quite a lot. I found with a lot of these music scenes that there are one or two key people who give you the thread. Rhonda Finlayson, who’s also in the book, is DJ Paulette's sister. So I then got in touch with DJ Paulette, and so on. The good thing about Black music communities, I think outside of London, is they’re quite small, relatively speaking.

Thatcher’s Britain looms large throughout the book. How do you view her policies as part of a deliberate cultural war against Black British existence?

Lanre Bakare: Her record on race isn’t great. I genuinely tried to go in with an open mind. I listened to a lot of Dominic Sandbrook, who is one of the hosts on The Rest Is History podcast, and he presents her in not always a critical light. I do, however, think she made a conscious decision to use race as a wedge issue. In 1978, she said on TV that British people feel they’re being ‘swamped by people of a different background and nationality.’ In 1981, she hosted this meeting with some of the youth workers and young kids from L8 in Liverpool. They said she didn’t want to talk to them. Then, she writes in her diaries that the ‘young men with high animal spirits who breed taboo’ caused the 1981 riots. As I got towards writing the end, I wanted to make sure to bring in other political figures because it wasn’t only Thatcher with these views. There was Jim Callaghan [Labour Party politician and former Prime Minister] who introduced some of the most racist immigration legislation we’ve ever seen. I think it’s absolutely undeniable that her stance on race was to weaponise it and she did that incredibly successfully, and set the template for modern politicians to do the same thing.

The story of George Lindo’s campaign against the Met Police reveals just how embedded racism was in the British justice system. The George Lindo case – where he was wrongly convicted and imprisoned for robbery in Bradford in 1978 – was something you admit you’d never heard of until your late 20s, despite being from there. Why did you decide to incorporate his story into the book?

Lanre Bakare: I think I heard the Linton Kwesi Johnson song which was about George Lindo [‘It Dread Inna Inglan’]. But growing up, his case wasn't something that I was aware of. In many ways, it was a triumphant campaign because they were successful but when you read the chapter, you understand the toll it took on him. He was an average guy, working as a textile worker and he gets thrown into Armley Prison for a crime he didn’t commit. I wanted to humanise that. We know that the sus law was really bad, and people were fitted up for stuff, but I wanted to show it through the eyes of this guy who was an everyman figure in the community. It’s an extraordinary story.

One of the most interesting chapters for me was ‘The Last Fort’, set in the countryside. This chapter really disrupts the assumption that Black Britishness is purely urban. Why do you think Black-British life is excluded from narratives of the countryside?

Lanre Bakare: I grew up in Bradford, I would go to Golden Acre Park and Ilkley Moor. The vast majority of Black British stories are set in the city. The negative stereotypes are that we are these ‘urban-dwelling people’ who are constantly causing unrest and are fighting back against the police. That’s the kind of image in the popular imagination. There was a study done by Eric Jay called Keep Them in Birmingham. That kind of touches on the idea, ‘stay away, this is our place, this is our kind of bastion of whiteness.’ If you put yourself in the shoes of a racist in the early 80s, you’d look around and be like ‘oh no, the city just seems like this kind of chaotic nightmare where it’s all kicking off.’ The countryside is a safe place, the last fort to be conquered. It’s a weird, very English obsession to protect the countryside. It goes back to the Blakean ideas of the pastoral.

In the chapter on the first National Black Art Convention in Wolverhampton, there is a crucial moment where Black British artists were confronting the institutional whiteness found in art but also negotiating their views with each other. How important is it to highlight that presuming a singular vision of Black identity is damaging?

Lanre Bakare: At the convention, there wasn’t just Black people saying, ‘We need to come together.’ It’s like, ‘No. This is my worldview.’ That illustrates that Blackness is not a monolith. Some 80s groups would exclude Black lesbians. John Akomfrah and those guys enjoyed theory, but they were speaking a completely different language to someone from Handsworth in Birmingham. I think Blackness can sometimes be presented as a really modular thing, and it’s important to show that it is not.

Black culture is becoming more mainstream — in fact, I’d argue Black culture is now British culture

You discuss the ‘Jah Warriors’ in Birmingham. One of the most disturbing images included in the book is a quote from Benjamin Zephaniah, who recalls red, gold, and green hats pinned on a police station wall – and beside them, dreadlocks, displayed like ‘scalps’. Why do you think the police had a violent reaction to Rastafarianism?

Lanre Bakare: If you take the first generation, the Windrush generation, they are God-fearing. Rastafarianism comes along, and it’s overtly Black nationalist. It’s a rejection of Christian values. You’ve got people with dreadlocks talking about going back to Africa. It was completely countercultural. Michael Riley from Steel Pulse talks about pictures of the Queen above the mantelpiece, and how there is a belief system now rejecting that. There was a generation that came over, worked hard, and the British Empire brought them up. Then, their kids come in, Black-British kids, and they are told: ‘Yeah, technically, you are British,’ but they’re getting none of the opportunities or privileges that are supposed to come with that. So, what would you do if you were them? Would you reject the society that was telling you that? I think I would.

You end the book with the future, and its possibilities. What kind of future do you see for Black Britishness?

Lanre Bakare: I have no idea what’s coming next and that’s exciting. If you look at how demographics are changing, we have Zimbabweans, people from Congo [coming here]. Black culture is becoming more mainstream – in fact, I’d argue Black culture is now British culture. In 50 years, when people look back at We Were There, it will be fascinating. Black people have made an immeasurable impact on this country. And it’s happening again. That said, we’ve still got a long way to go in society. But culturally, I’m optimistic. I can’t wait to see what the next generation, from all around the world, growing up here, brings.

We Were There: How Black Culture, Resistance and Community Shaped Modern Britain is available now.